


Flight of the Eagle Star

by Dernhelm



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, BDSM, Dominant Theoden, Edgeplay, M/M, Power Dynamics, Riding Crops, Smut, Submissive Aragorn, Young Theoden - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-04-16
Updated: 2004-04-16
Packaged: 2018-01-02 10:56:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1055952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dernhelm/pseuds/Dernhelm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A young Théoden teaches Thorongil (Aragorn) a different meaning of “service to the crown.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flight of the Eagle Star

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Notes: In the appendixes in _Return of the King_ , it said that Aragorn “served in disguise both Thengel of Rohan and Ecthelion II of Gondor” from 2957-80. However, it is not said how long he stayed in Rohan. So, I took a bit of creative license with the dates to serve the purpose of the story. 
> 
> This was originally written and published on LJ in 2004.

Third Age: 2969

Thorongil sighed as he slumped upon his rough-hewn bed, looking about the hopeless disarray of his small bedroom. Clothing, weaponry, and the small artifacts of his life were stacked in haphazard piles on almost every level surface, concentrated mostly around the half-packed bag that stood in the middle of his room.

_‘How does one fit an entire life into one bag?’_ he mused darkly to himself, wiping a hand across his tired face. It was already long past midnight, but he knew sleep would be denied him until he had his bag packed and ready for his dawn departure.

His bleary eyes rested upon a neatly folded piece of parchment upon his bedside table, the creamy surface marred by dark smudges that paid testament to the letter’s long journey.

That blasted letter.

Thorongil gingerly picked up the paper for the third time that hour, half-hoping in his exhaustion that he had misread it, and that the words would form themselves into a more welcome message. He slowly unfolded it, letting his gaze rove the spindly handwriting as his heart sank again, each sweeping stroke another nail in the coffin of his fate:

_Thorongil,_

_The hour has come, my friend._

_Gondor calls for champions, and it is finally time you left the Golden Hall for the White City._

_Give your leave to King Thengel. He will not be happy about it, but he has a good heart and a love of Gondor, and will give you an excellent letter of merit to present to Steward Ecthelion._

_I will meet you at the banks of the Mering Stream in one turn of the moon, where we will further discuss your course of action._

_Be safe, Aragorn. I look forward to seeing you again._

_Gandalf_  

And there it was. There was never room to argue with the Gray Pilgrim.

Never mind that Aragorn had spent over a decade among the Rohirrim, learning their language and customs, becoming one of them as surely as had he been born to their ways.

Never mind that he had fallen in love with the lands here, with Rohan’s wide open plains nestled amid the snow-crowned mountains. Lands where the wind sang of a freedom so rare one could only chance taste it upon the back of a horse.

Never mind that he had found honor and companionship among the Riders the likes of which he had never known, for among the Rohirrim those who spilled blood together became as close as those bound by it.

Never mind that he didn’t want to leave.

But, he had always known this day would come. He and Gandalf had discussed it long before Aragorn had been given the name Thorongil, Eagle Star, long before he had even first set eyes upon Rohan’s sweeping majesty.

_‘Ten years to learn how to serve men; then ten years to learn how to lead them.’_ That had been their plan all along.

He just hadn’t realized how quickly the first ten years would pass.

Thorongil refolded the letter and tossed it back upon the table, groaning as he stood to tackle the task before him anew. He’d been trying to pack since he had awakened in the pre-dawn darkness, but had been met by constant interruptions throughout the entire day. There were countless questions from the men who were taking up his duties, as they plotted and re-plotted the course of transition and the splitting of his tasks between them. This would not have been so time-consuming had they not been joined by a seemingly endless stream of comrades and well-wishers, all of whom wanted a moment alone with him to express their sorrow at his departure and their hopes for his prosperous future.

And just when the sun had set, and he had foolishly thought the evening would bring him a bit of peace, his fellows had dragged him out of his room to join them at a farewell feast, though he had distinctly told them he hadn’t wanted one when they had brought up the idea a week before. Pint after pint of ale had been placed in front of him as the toasts had gone long into the night; even the King himself had stopped in for round, lauding Thorongil as one of Rohan’s finest amid the cheering of the drunken Riders and Thorongil’s humble protests.

He had finally escaped just before midnight, his head still swimming with ale and his heart filled with a bittersweet ache. It would be long before his path would bring him back through the gilded doors of Meduseld, and he would miss this way of life badly.

Too badly.

Perhaps it was best he left now.

Thorongil had just finished selecting three fine muslin shirts to take with him, when there was a quiet knock at his door. He stood motionless, hoping that if he remained silent his visitor would think him asleep and leave. But the knock came again, louder and even more insistent, and Thorongil tossed the shirts to the bed with a growl of frustration as he was forced to open the door and face the unwanted guest.

His admonishments died on his lips as he laid eyes upon his visitor, and Thorongil dropped his hands to his side and bowed his head respectfully, his irritation swallowed by etiquette.  
.  
“My Lord King-Son,” Thorongil said evenly as he brought his head up, meeting his guest’s glass-blue eyes briefly, “to what do I owe the honor of this visit?”

Without waiting for an invitation, Théoden, Thengel’s only son, strode into Thorongil’s den of barely organized chaos. Scarcely a few years over twenty, Théoden already carried himself with the same noble air that defined the men of his line. He held his head high upon his square shoulders, and his hair cascaded like a golden mantle about his proud, youthful face as he turned to regard Thorongil coldly.

“So you leave Rohan on the morrow, Thorongil?” Théoden asked, though it sounded more a statement than an actual question.

It still threw Thorongil to hear such a rich voice coming from such a young man, his words so carefully pronounced they almost sounded rehearsed.

“Aye, my Lord.” Thorongil shut the door quietly behind them, afraid that the sound of his voice would rouse even more visitors. The feast had still been in full swing when he had managed to sneak away, and he knew his only saving grace was the fact that he had last been seen in the company of a lovely red-haired woman when he had left the room. No one would be disturbing him as long as they still thought he was "entertaining company."

But the king’s son had not been at the gathering, Thorongil realized suddenly as he watched Théoden. It had seemed that almost all of Edoras had stopped in at one moment or another to wish him well during the long day, and Thorongil realized with a pang of guilt he hadn’t even noticed Théoden’s absence.

But it was not as if he and Théoden were friends, per se. Thorongil had always shown him the proper respect due to a king’s son, and Théoden had always regarded Thorongil with the sort of distant friendliness he usually reserved for the Marshals of the Mark. They had never ridden in the same host; and Théoden had never sought out his companionship in the idle hours. Why should he? He was the King’s son, and Thorongil was truly nothing more than another servant to the crown.

But here Théoden was, his sharp eyes taking in the state of the room, the half-packed bag, and Thorongil’s slumped shoulders before darting up to meet the dark-haired man’s tired eyes.

“Have you finally wearied of Rohan, then?” Théoden asked suddenly, his voice unexpectedly harsh. “Do you think there to be more honor and renown for you in Gondor than what you have found among the Rohirrim?”

Thorongil was taken aback. He had seen Théoden’s temper flare before, but he had never expected to find himself at the brunt of one of these dark moods. He did not think his departure would have even been noticed by the young Lord, nonetheless spur him to such anger.

But no, this was more than anger, Thorongil realized as he unflinchingly met the King’s son in the eye. There was great hurt there as well, which Thorongil could not quite understand. He knew Théoden was proud of his heritage and his people, and he held little love of Gondor, though he had spent the first six years of his life in Minas Tirith. Perhaps this was nothing more than patriotic jealousy, then.

“No, my Lord,” Thorongil said, his voice soft but firm. He pulled himself to attention, which made him a few inches taller than the young man. “I have given ten years of my life in the service of the noble houses of Rohan, and I would gladly give ten more were I not acting upon the will of a greater force.”

“What force would that be?” Théoden asked, the heat lowering from his tone in response to Thorongil’s calm voice.

“Fate,” Thorongil replied. Though it was the truth the word sounded hollow to his ears.

But it seemed to satisfy the king’s son, and Théoden nodded as he turned his back on Thorongil again, stepping carefully over the piles of armor and tack that littered the floor as he made his way to the one chair in the room. Surprised and half annoyed that the youth wanted to continue the conversation, Thorongil hurried to clear off the clothing-covered seat for him.

Théoden murmured a slight thanks as he sat down, his back as straight and regal as if he sat in his father’s great throne in the golden hall. It was but a shadow of the future, but in that moment Thorongil could indeed see Théoden in the ripeness of manhood, a gilded crown upon his fair head. He would make a fine king to be sure.

“It was fate that brought you to Rohan, was it not, Eagle Star?” Théoden said, almost conversationally, “and by the very same device you shall be taken from her.”

Thorongil sat himself upon the end of the bed, no more than a yard away in these cramped quarters. He tried not to let his mild exasperation show as he settled himself, casting a look about the room again and all that remained to be done. Of all the nights Théoden could have chosen to speak of philosophy!

“It is unfortunate fate has chosen to take you from us so soon, Thorongil,” Théoden said, his eyes suddenly refusing to meet Thorongil’s. “I am to be given my rank this year, and I had been intending to assign you to my company.”

This, then, was the source of the young lord’s hurt, Thorongil realized. It was a large milestone indeed for Théoden to be given his command as Second Marshal of the Mark, and it would have been a great honor for Thorongil to have been selected to ride beside him.

“A time may come yet when we will draw swords together,” Thorongil said confidently, though his heart did not truly reflect his words. He had no idea what the future held for either of them in these darkening times.

Théoden nodded again, and his eyes seemed to lock on the glittering star brooch that Thorongil wore pinned to his tunic.

I regret that I will miss the ceremony, my Lord,” Thorongil continued with a tired sigh, ale and fatigue loosening his tongue. “You have grown up before my eyes, Théoden King-Son, and I wish I could be here to watch you come fully to manhood.”

Théoden seemed to bristle at Thorongil’s words, and the older man felt his face heat with embarrassment. He should not have assumed to be so familiar with Thengel’s heir.

But the King’s son spoke before Thorongil could even open his mouth to apologize.

“I have been a man longer than you realize, Thorongil,” Théoden said, his voice laced with equal parts heat and cold, “though I know you have not noticed.”

Thorongil was surprised. Théoden had only just entered his twelfth year when the ranger had come to Rohan, and truthfully, Thorongil had been so wrapped up in his new life that he had paid little heed to Théoden in his teenage years. But he had indeed noticed when Théoden’s coltish awkwardness had transformed into quiet power, when boyish bravado had become true courage.

Yes, he had noticed. More than he truly wanted to admit to his Lord.

“I have seen, my King-Son, what a fine young man you have become,” Thorongil said carefully as he bowed his head slightly again, “and I had simply wished to express my sorrow in leaving just when you were coming into your command. I truly regret that I will not be able to accept the honor you would have bestowed upon me, for nothing would have brought me more pride than to ride under your banner.”

He had hoped his words would soothe Théoden’s wounded pride, for he did not want to part with angry words between them. They were too close to being the only words between them.

Théoden was quiet for a long minute, his strong jaw locked in contemplation as his normally smooth brow furrowed to match. He seemed to be mulling over Thorongil’s words, weighing them as if they were stacks of gold upon a scale. As the silence stretched on, Thorongil thought of asking if Théoden would excuse him to finish packing his things if he meant for the conversation to end there.

But then Théoden came to a decision.

“I would like to know then, my Lord Thorongil, if there is another honor you would let me grant you before you depart,” Théoden said, his voice low.

“I will do my Lord’s bidding, if it is in my power to do so,” Thorongil said surely, though he arched his eyebrows in curiosity as he sighed internally. He already had enough to do before the dawn, which was now no more than five hours away, but he suddenly felt that he owed Théoden for the great disappointment he had just caused him.

“Then I ask that you lay with me on this night,” Théoden said softly, but surely. His ice-blue eyes finally locked with Thorongil’s, shining with a desire long hidden behind barriers of propriety and uncertainty.

Thorongil was utterly shocked. Of all the things Thengel’s son could have asked of him, this was the very last he had expected. His mouth opened and closed, like a gasping fish, and he felt his face burning under Théoden’s unwavering gaze. In contrast, the young lord seemed so confident, so collected, that Thorongil wondered if he had heard him correctly.

“My Lord? You wish for me to, to. . .” Thorongil could not force himself to pronounce the doubtful words, for if he was indeed wrong he would make an even greater fool of himself by speaking them aloud.

“Lay with me,” Théoden repeated, smiling slightly at the older man’s confusion.

Thorongil looked at the young man carefully, taking in the gleaming eyes, the firm, smiling lips, and the well-built body clad in snug, dark velvet. He was desirable.

And desired.

“I have seen you, Thorongil,” Théoden said, a little cautiously, “when you think no one is about. I have seen you with other men of your company, and I know you do lay them.”

Thorongil’s blush deepened. If the Thengel’s son had seen him, there was no telling how many others knew this of him.

“I am not trying to blackmail you,” Théoden assured him, his voice suddenly candid, “for this is my own confession to you. Long have I wanted you, Thorongil, and long have I watched you. I waited for the day when we would ride together, and I would have the chance to be the man in your arms when we returned from battle. . .” the young man’s voice trailed off, and he took a deep breath, collecting himself before speaking again, his words firm again. “But now you are leaving. So what say you, Thorongil? Will you let me share your bed tonight?”

The older man was speechless. Never had he been propositioned so boldly, and it threw him off his guard to see such naked desire shining from such an otherwise composed face. And such a youthful face! Théoden was by far younger than any of the other men Thorongil had bedded in Edoras, but the confidence in his posture added years to him that belied his true age. It was such an intoxicating combination.

Thorongil shook his head slightly as the irony struck him. He himself was nearing forty, and he still walked about with the appearance of a man just past his thirtieth year. Did Théoden know how old he truly was? Would the boy still want him if he knew Thorongil was old enough to comfortably be his father?

Thorongil stood suddenly, restlessness driving him into a pace, his bare feet padding silently across the carpeted floor. He avoided Théoden’s eyes, which watched him patiently, and the baffled man rolled his Lord’s offer over in his mind again and again.

Did Théoden want to be treated as Thorongil would any of his other man-lovers? Did he want Thorongil to pull his clothes aside while being pressed to the hard ground, filthy promises growled into his noble ear as Thorongil’s dirty hands ferreted over his smooth skin? Did Théoden want to be taken with no more than spit and lust to lubricate the way, his own fist crammed in his perfect mouth to keep himself from screaming in that ecstatic mélange of pain and pleasure that defined sex with Thorongil?

The mental image of Théoden writhing under him – of his golden hair matted about a face contorted in bliss as Thorongil pounded mercilessly into that firm, strong body – was enough to arouse Thorongil to the point where he could no longer face Théoden without fear of showing him the physical manifestation of his lust.

But at the very same time, it sickened Thorongil so thoroughly that his stomach clenched into an angry knot for even entertaining such wicked thoughts. Théoden was the King’s son, and would remain his Lord until Thorongil finally stepped across the border into the green lands of Gondor. To fantasize of subjugating his Lord to such base desires was enough to make the soldier quail in shame. No matter how badly he may want Théoden, he could not have him. Not like that. He could not shame him so.

“King-Son, you honor me deeply with your request,” Thorongil tried not to let his voice quake and betray his agitation, “but once again, I must risk your displeasure by declining.”

Thorongil could not bear to look at Théoden, for he knew the youth’s face would be set in a fury borne of twice-wounded pride.

“Do you not desire me then?” Théoden voice was deadly soft, almost a whisper, thick with disbelief.

Thorongil wondered briefly whether it would be easier to lie to the youth. But when he finally turned to face Théoden, whose eyes flashed darkly from his rigid face, Thorongil knew he would be doing him an even greater dishonor. One does not lie to their Lord, no matter how difficult the truth may be.

“I do desire you, Lord Théoden,” Thorongil let his eyes drop slightly, watching the youth’s flushed lips rather than his heated eyes, “but my oath to your father’s crown will not allow me to fulfill your wish.”

A pregnant silence filled the room for a second.

“Explain,” Théoden ordered, his voice firm, but slightly curious.

“When I entered my service to the King, I vowed to protect him and his line, and the lands under his throne, with my very lifeblood.” Thorongil brought himself to attention again, recalling with pride the words he had spoken when swearing his allegiance. “I pledged to honor and obey the King and his kin, until I be released by either his word or death’s hand.”

Thorongil met his Lord’s eyes then, finally baring his own raw lust in his liquid pupils, to further emphasize the weight of his decision.

“I would be doing a great dishonor to your father,” Thorongil concluded, “and to you, my Lord, were I to take you like a common soldier in the field. I am not worthy of laying with you, King-Son. I am only a servant of the crown.”

Théoden said nothing for a long moment. He sat completely still, and only the firelight dancing in his eyes lent him any movement. His brow had furrowed again, and he stared at Thorongil with what seemed a mix of admiration and surprise.

“Is that truly the only reason, Thorongil?” Théoden asked, his voice suddenly lighter than it had been since he had entered the room. “That you fear to dishonor the crown?”

“Yes,” Thorongil replied without hesitation.

“Then as heir to the crown, I order you to strip for me.” Théoden’s voice was silky as he gazed unflinchingly at Thorongil, a sly smile playing on the corners of his lips.

For the third time that night, Thorongil stood dumbfounded on the spot.

“My Lord – ”

“Strip for me, Eagle Star.” Théoden’s voice carried the weight of command, but it was softened by an edge of mirth. He had found the loop in Thorongil’s logic, and he was fully ready to exploit it to get what he hungered for. “Do not make me punish you for disobedience to your Lord.”

Thorongil’s mind was racing, trying to find the flaw in this command, fear of dishonor still locking his hands stubbornly to his sides. In a final attempt, almost as if he were testing Théoden, Thorongil brought himself up to his full height, his shoulders thrown back, letting his own natural air of majesty swirl about him. Locked deep within him was the same regal strength Théoden so openly displayed, and he called upon it rarely, not wanting to admit to the source of it’s power. But Théoden must know what he was contending with, and Thorongil had to be sure the boy was indeed ready for the game he had presented before them.

“I ask you kindly only one more time,” Théoden’s eyes had narrowed as a warning note slipped into his voice. “Strip.” He had not been fazed at all by Thorongil’s display.

Thorongil sank back into himself. Few people had ever been able to keep their resolve when he faced them with the full power of his lineage behind him, and fewer still had been able to simply ignore it completely. Théoden would be a hard man to break, Thorongil realized, and his respect for the boy – no, the young man – doubled as he humbly dropped his eyes before his Lord in obedience.

With hands trembling in equal parts shock and desire, Thorongil slowly undid the laces of his tunic, his heart pounding so loudly he was afraid it could be heard echoing through the empty halls of Meduseld. He had never been treated in such a way before. He was used to taking command in these situations, and he realized with a thrill that he had no idea what to expect from Théoden.

His tunic soon hung loose over his frame as the last lace was undone, exposing a band of hair-dappled flesh from his neck to his navel. Théoden watched him silently, his hands locked to the arms of the chair, his eyes burning lustily as Thorongil finally pulled the flimsy fabric over his shoulders, letting it drop to the floor amid the forgotten piles of packing.

Thorongil stood for a moment, shivering a bit in the chill air, but the small fire in the hearth lent just enough heat to keep goose-bumps from rising on his tanned skin. He looked up at Théoden, as if waiting for approval, and only when the fair head nodded did Thorongil begin working on the ties of his breeches.

Thorongil could not help the deep blush that had begun to creep over his face as his fingers worked at the little knots, fumbling now and again in his nervousness. He wanted to please his young lord, but he was unsure the best way to do so. Should he preen? Should he tease? Did he even know how to behave in a seductive manner? He was so used to quick, rough couplings with men; the thought of sensuality had never even entered his mind. If only Théoden would say something, guide him a bit!

But Théoden simply drank in Thorongil’s tension as if it were wine, relishing his apparent discomfort as he kept his own silence.

When the leather cord hit the floor, Thorongil hooked his thumbs into the loosened waistband of his breeches, as if he meant to pull them down. But his hands were frozen suddenly, and he found himself overcome with a great vulnerability that he could not explain. He had been naked before men before, many, many times. But it unnerved him to be watched so closely, to be put on such display. He knew he was already half-hard in his breeches, and the thought of so boldly showing Théoden – who showed no intention of disrobing himself – made Thorongil feel oddly shy.

Théoden seemed to sense the source of Thorongil’s hesitation, and he took a little mercy on his servant.

“Turn around, Thorongil. I want to watch you from behind,” Théoden ordered.

With more than a little relief, Thorongil turned his back to his Lord, swinging his long, black mane over his shoulders so it cascaded nearly to the small of his back. He had grown his hair in the fashion of the Rohirrim, but its dark color made it an exotic trait among the fair-haired people. Perhaps that was the reason he was so sought after.

Now, with his back turned, his growing erection hidden from Théoden’s eyes, Thorongil was finally able to slip the clinging fabric down over his slim hips, slowly exposing the pale globes of his buttocks to his Lord’s hungry eyes.

“Stop there,” Théoden commanded, his breath suddenly hitched.

Thorongil complied, his breeches just past the firm cheeks of his behind, feeling suddenly more exposed than if he were fully naked. He could feel Théoden’s eyes memorizing every ripple of the muscles in Thorongil’s back, every wave in his hair, each curve of his ass. Théoden remained silent, and the only sound that filled the room was the dull crackle of the fire, and Thorongil found his member thickening in anticipation. He was liking this game more than he’d thought he would.

“Proceed,” Théoden finally said, and Thorongil slid his breeches the rest of the way off his muscled legs and onto the floor.

Completely naked, Thorongil shivered again. He kept his hands to his sides, unsure what to do. Théoden seemed content to just stare at him, and Thorongil found the caress of his Lord’s gaze to be as arousing as the touch of a hand. Tingles of pleasure coursed over his skin, meeting finally at the straining juncture between his thighs.

“Turn around.”

Taking a deep breath, Thorongil complied, finally turning to face his lord clad only in humility and desire. Although the expression on Théoden’s face had barely changed, his eyes glinted even more darkly in the dim light, and he seemed to lean forward a little more in his seat. Thorongil did not dare glance at Théoden’s lap, for he kept his eyes locked to the ground. He was sure though if he had, he would have seen a tell-tale bulge outlined in soft black velvet, evidence of his enjoyment of Thorongil’s hesitant performance.

“Come closer.”

Thorongil only needed to take a few steps before he stood so close to Théoden that their legs brushed, and Thorongil shivered at the slight contact on his bare skin. He was painfully aware that his member--so hard now that it stood flush against his muscled belly--was at eye level to Théoden, and Thorongil flushed suddenly to see Théoden’s eyes lock upon it.

Then, without warning, Théoden moved with the quickness of a striking snake and grasped Thorongil’s straining cock with his hand. Thorongil yelped with surprise, forcing himself not to pull away in his shock. Yelp transformed into groan as Théoden’s hand slid up the rigid shaft, his touch firm, yet light, almost as if he were testing it rather than pleasuring it. Théoden’s strong fingers plucked at the engorged tip, and were rewarded as the first clear drops issued forth from the tiny slit.

Théoden leaned forward further, and to Thorongil’s amazement, the king’s son darted his tongue out to taste the salty drop. Thorongil moaned again as moist, rough flesh lapped at the sensitive head. But Théoden did not stop there. His tongue quested farther and farther down the shaft, painting swirling designs along it’s length as his other hand reached up to slowly massage the tight sac hidden amid a thicket of dense black curls.

Thorongil was beside himself. It felt exquisite, but his heart clenched to see the king’s son performing such base actions upon his flesh. Should Thorongil not be the one servicing his Lord?

His vision suddenly went hazy, and Thorongil cried out as he felt Théoden’s hot mouth swallow his cock nearly to the base. The soldier looked down just in time to watch Théoden pull back and plunge down again, sucking him deep as his tongue continued flickering along the sensitive skin. It was too much for Thorongil to take, and he pulled back abruptly, his wet member sliding out of Théoden’s mouth with a moist noise.

“My Lord, I, I don’t deserve this from you!” Thorongil stuttered, but half of him wanted nothing more than to thrust himself again into Théoden’s waiting mouth, the lips red and glistening with use.

Théoden arched an eyebrow at Thorongil, letting his displeasure show on his face.

“I will be the judge of what you deserve,” Théoden said smoothly, his voice tinged with frost, “and if it pleases me to suck you until you are screaming with need, then you will stand there and take it without saying a word. Do you understand?”

Thorongil nodded dumbly.

“Do you understand?” Théoden repeated, more sharply.

“Yes, my Lord,” Thorongil replied, his voice meek.

“Now, I want you to hold your hands behind your back. Do not touch me unless I tell you to. Do not move unless I tell you to. Do not say a word unless I tell you to. And most importantly of all, do not release unless I tell you to. You are my servant, and I will command your desires this night,” Théoden said, looking up at Thorongil with burning eyes.

Thorongil opened his mouth to reply, but shut it again just in time. Théoden had not asked for a answer.

Smiling at his servant, Théoden resumed his task, sucking in Thorongil’s thick member with powerful strokes of his lips, one of his hands joining in the rhythm. Thorongil whimpered in his throat as he grasped his arms behind his back, helpless to do anything but watch as Théoden’s golden head bobbed mercilessly before him.

Thorongil was surprising himself with how easily he was adapting to this change in his natural order. . .and by how much he was truly enjoying it. He was so accustomed to being the instigator, carrying his partner through their coupling from heated fumblings to feverish completion. Never had he let himself be ruled so, never had he allowed himself to be taken command of so completely. There was a new bliss here, in striving to please, that he would never have imagined possible. He felt utterly naked, bound by service. . .and by that he felt oddly freed somehow.

He fought to keep his hips from bucking into the soft heat of Théoden’s mouth, and he dug his nails into the meat of his arms when the sweet rhythm became too much to bear. After what seemed like an eternity, Théoden finally released Thorongil’s member, giving one more good stroke with his hand before he wiped his mouth with the back it.

“Now, Thorongil, since you are so eager to serve, go on your knees and pleasure me just as I have you.” Théoden purred.

Without hesitation, the older man dropped to his knees. He was slightly relieved as he landed on a soft pile of half-folded clothes, for he had a feeling he would be down here for a while. Théoden’s erect member was already exposed for him, much to his surprise, until he realized that his lord had been stroking himself while he had been suckling Thorongil.

Without waiting for further instruction, Thorongil lunged hungrily and sucked Théoden’s cock into his mouth, marveling at the slick texture of the skin as it slid past his lips. It was difficult with his hands still clasped behind his back, but he found the challenge even more appealing as he had to use his tongue to maneuver the straining rod to the right angle.

Théoden was moaning quietly above him, and Thorongil felt a jolt go through him as Théoden’s hands rested upon his head, fingers entwining in his dark hair. Théoden pulled Thorongil’s thick curls away from his face to watch him better, and Thorongil’s heart almost burst with pleasure as Théoden let forth a rapturous sigh.

“By the _Mearas_ , you are beautiful like that, Thorongil!” Théoden groaned, and thrust himself deeper into Thorongil’s sleek mouth.

Thorongil sucked even harder, feeling his spit dribbling down his chin, and not even caring. His Lord was pleased, and that was all that mattered to him. He lost himself in the salty taste of Théoden’s flesh, the feel of the wiry curls scraping along his stubbled chin, and the tiny spurts and twitches that Théoden’s cock would emit whenever Thorongil flickered his tongue upon the base of the head.

How far could he take this? Thorongil found himself pressing deeper with each down-stroke, forcing the head of Théoden’s cock further and further into his mouth. Could he take it all? It had been done to him several times before, and the sensation of a man’s tight throat clamping about his member was a pleasure beyond words. Could he do that for his Lord?

Théoden’s breath was coming in hitches, his hands knotting into fists upon Thorongil’s head as he lifted his hips up off the seat to meet the caresses of Thorongil’s lips.

With Théoden’s next thrust, Thorongil relaxed his throat, and pushed down hard. The head of the cock slid past the tight ring of muscle and deep into his throat, and Théoden cried out in surprise just as Thorongil pulled back, sputtering and gasping. That had been close, but too harsh. A new approach was needed.

Thorongil tried again, more slowly this time. Inch by inch, breathing deeply through his nose, he let the rod of burning flesh press deeper, deeper, past the gag reflex. . .

Théoden kept his hips still, simply watching in amazement as his cock disappeared completely into Thorongil’s mouth.

Thorongil swallowed, taking Théoden in as deep as he could, and the sharp cry of utter pleasure that met his ears was worth the soreness in his throat. He pulled back and dove again, now knowing the secret, determined to show his Lord how well he could swallow him. He choked now and again, which strangely enough, seemed to excite Théoden, and Thorongil’s eyes began to water with the effort.

So intent was Thorongil on his task, so lost was he on his ceaseless rhythm, that he did not hear Théoden’s cry of warning. Perhaps it was because Théoden’s order was couched in fierce moans of pleasure, and his strong hands had already been tugging at Thorongil’s long locks. But before Thorongil knew what was happening, his mouth was filled with a thick, bitter fluid as Théoden spent himself down Thorongil’s throat. The servant greedily drank in his Lord’s pleasure, swallowing each spurt as best he could, glowing with pride the entire time.

But Thorongil’s pride subsided as Théoden roughly pulled his head up, sending creamy trickles of unswallowed seed coursing down Thorongil’s chin. Théoden’s eyes blazed in fury, and Thorongil found himself quivering involuntarily. What had he done wrong?

“Did you not hear my order to stop?” Théoden growled.

Thorongil shook his head before finding his voice.

“No, my Lord!” Thorongil gasped, his throat feeling strange and hollow.

“I did not instruct you to make me come!” Théoden barked. “You were showing off, weren’t you, servant?”

Thorongil would have bowed his head in shame had Théoden not been holding it fast, so instead he dropped his eyes. Indeed, he had been trying to impress Théoden.

“Yes, my Lord.” Thorongil whispered, wishing he could wipe his mouth, for the drippings upon his chest were growing cold, and he felt even more shameful with the evidence of his disobedience painting his flesh.

“I should leave you like this,” Théoden mused darkly, trailing a finger through the sticky fluid coating Thorongil’s stubble, “naked, on your knees, achingly hard, with not a whisper of release on the horizon for you.”

Thorongil could not help the whimper that escaped his throat, his eyes becoming moist and pleading as he swallowed hard. He could not believe that Théoden was capable of speaking in such a way, and the effect it had on him was incredible. Thorongil found himself practically swooning under the spell of his words, and only Théoden’s fast handhold upon his head stopped him from swaying.

“Shall I send you to Gondor with my seed painting your flesh and your erection tight in your breeches?” Théoden continued cruelly, smearing a little more of his fluid off Thorongil’s face and upon his fingers. “I could forbid you to touch yourself until you pass the border of Rohan, even. What would you do then?”

With his slicked hand, Théoden reached down and lightly stroked Thorongil’s cock, which was now so hard it ached at Théoden’s touch. Thorongil tried to keep his hips still, to show his lord how obedient he could be now, but it became increasingly difficult as Théoden’s hand began moving more firmly.

“I can see you now, Thorongil,” Théoden leaned closer to Thorongil’s ear, his voice holding his servant captive as surely as his hands did. “Would you drop to your knees and stroke yourself? Would you be thinking of me the whole time? Would your first gift to Gondor be the hot seed you would spill upon her soil in the name of Rohan’s heir?”

Théoden’s hand stroked faster, slick with his own cum and Thorongil’s spit, and Thorongil’s little moans came in time with each movement. He could not help the slight movement of his hips anymore, try as he might, for Théoden’s hands were too skilled, his words too intoxicating. He did not know how much longer he could last like this, but fear kept his lust in check. If he spent without his Lord’s orders, it would be even worse. Théoden’s eyes gleamed maliciously into his own, and Thorongil did not for a second doubt that Théoden had it in his heart to follow through with his cruel promises.

“Is that what you want, Eagle Star?” Théoden asked, his voice flowing like molten silk through the haze of lust clouding Thorongil’s mind. “Do you want me to leave you like this?”

Thorongil opened his mouth, ready reply with the words screaming through his mind: _'No! By the Valar, no!'_ But he checked himself in time. What he wanted was truly of no consequence. Théoden’s desires were all that mattered.

“If that be your wish, my Lord,” Thorongil gasped, biting his bitter-coated lip as Théoden’s hand squeezed the tip of his cock fiercely. His desires were at the mercy of his Lord, whatever they may be, and he braced himself for the abandonment he was sure was coming.

Thorongil choked back a cry of frustration as Théoden’s hand stopped stroking him, the other hand finally releasing his hair. Thorongil slumped down, letting his naked buttocks rest on his heels as he bowed his head in shame. His hair covered his face like a dark curtain, and he felt little strands sticking to the mess on his chin he still didn’t dare wipe away. He still hadn’t been ordered to move his hands.

“Well, said, servant.” Théoden’s rich voice held a hint of admiration, just enough to let Thorongil’s heart twitch with pleasure, but not enough to let it get to his head. “There may be hope for redeeming you yet.”

Thorongil did not look up as he heard the rustle of cloth above him, but he could tell Théoden was cleaning himself on one of Thorongil’s old shirts. A slight snap told him when Théoden had put his cock away in his breeches again, and Thorongil felt even more exposed in comparison.

“Stand up,” Théoden ordered, “and lay down upon the bed, face down.”

It took some effort with his hands still clasped behind his back, but Thorongil managed after several attempts to get his protesting knees to work again. Wordlessly, he climbed onto the small bed – which was wide enough for only one man to sleep in comfortably – ignoring the piles of clean clothes that he had stacked there what seemed like lifetimes ago. Packing no longer mattered, neither did his departure. All his being was centered on the blond youth, his Golden Lord, who finally stood from his seat with liquid grace.

Thorongil was so busy discreetly wiping his face against the rough pillow that he did not see what Théoden was preparing next. But when the young lord finally came to the bedside, Thorongil’s eyes widened in terror to see what Théoden had found.

In Théoden’s hands were a short riding crop, and a long strip of thick, soft leather about two fingers wide. The crop he had had found upon a pile of ceremonial garb folded upon the table, as the Rohirrim did not need crops when urging their horses to battle. It was purely for show, but well-made nonetheless; tightly braded strips of rich brown leather entwined intricately into a flat flap embossed with a stylized horse-head. The handle was sculpted of a dark wood lacquered to a high gloss, and Théoden griped it as easily as he did the hilt of his sword. Théoden looked down at Thorongil’s prostrate form with a wicked smile, thoroughly enjoying the look on his servant’s face as he swung the crop through the air with a powerful swishing sound.

Thorongil flinched at the noise, trying to press himself further into the mattress. He was truly frightened now. He had allowed himself to be hit for pleasure once before, and the experience had been such a dismal failure that Thorongil had sworn never to let another man take leather to his skin again. He’d had raw welts crossing his flesh in random patterns for days after the event, and even the sound of leather reins cracking against a saddle had sent shivers down his spine for weeks. Thorongil wanted desperately to ask Théoden not to strike him, but his submission held his tongue in check. Instead, he buried his face in the pillow, his breathing shallow, waiting for the torturous blows to rain upon his back.

To his surprise, though, it was not the crop that first touched Thorongil’s flesh, but Théoden’s hand, squeezing his shoulder gently.

“Look at me, Thorongil.” The sudden kindness in Théoden’s voice wrapped itself around Thorongil’s fear, muffling it as the servant pulled his head up to meet his lord’s gaze.

Théoden sat beside him on the bed now, the crop resting safely on his knees. His eyes had softened, as he had noticed the change in Thorongil, the very real fear that had transformed him from lustful servant to cowering slave.

“Is there something you wish to ask me?” Théoden stroked Thorongil’s back, as if he were soothing a frightened child.

“My Lord, my will is yours to command,” Thorongil answered automatically, though his words were no longer as sure as they had been before.

“Thorongil? I am being serious. What is troubling you?” Théoden’s voice had become firmer, but no less kind. “I would have you be honest with me if something in this game truly bothers you.”

A game. It was just a game. Realization flooded so completely into Thorongil that he almost laughed to find himself again. He had let himself be so wrapped in the mindset of submission that he had begun to forget his own boundaries. Truly, if he had wanted to refuse Théoden’s proposal he could have, for sexual servitude was not part of the code of service to the crown. It was his right as a free man. And as a free man he had submitted himself to Théoden.

“My Lord, I have been hurt badly before by the bite of leather,” Thorongil said, raising his head as best he could with his hands still behind his back, “and I am unsure whether it would be. . .” he was having trouble putting his uncertainties into words.

Théoden nodded in understanding.

“Do you wish me not to strike you, then?” Théoden asked gently, and Thorongil knew there would be no consequences if he refused to let himself be struck.

But a part of him was curious, for Théoden, young as he was, was obviously quite experienced with games such as these. Could he possibly be skilled enough to wield the crop without seriously hurting him?

“May I ask you something, my Lord?”

“Certainly.”

“Have you ever struck a man for pleasure before?”

“Many times.” Théoden smiled genuinely, and brushed a stray tendril of hair out of Thorongil’s face for him.

“Can you strike without leaving lasting marks?”

“Indeed, I can.”

“If I were to let you beat me, would you stop if it became too much to bear?”

“Of course I would!” Théoden looked slightly surprised.

Thorongil mulled Théoden’s responses in his mind, and after a short debate curiosity won over fear.

“Then I would like you to whip me, my Lord.”

“Alright then, Thorongil, I will.” Théoden smiled brightly, which ironically made him look even younger, “but first, look me in the eye.”

Thorongil complied, and it was as if he gazed into clear lakes reflecting a cloudless noon sky. Only compassion and honestly shone from their depths, and it surprised Thorongil to realize Théoden’s first concern was not for his own pleasure, but for his servant’s well-being.

“Do you trust your Lord?”

“I trust you, my Lord.” Thorongil said firmly, meaning his words this time.

Nodding, Théoden tossed the leather cord onto the table beside them. Thorongil’s eyes flickered nervously to the letter beside it, but Théoden seemed to pay it no mind as he turned again to his servant.

“I was going to bind your mouth, but it seems that is not a good idea given the circumstances,” Théoden mused lightly. “I want to know if the pain becomes too great for you, but I also want you to feel free to cry out against it without fear of me stopping if you come to enjoy it. So, I want you to call me by name if the pain becomes to great. Do you understand?” Théoden stroked Thorongil’s shoulder again, his fingers trailing lazily along the curvature of the muscles.

Thorongil was a bit surprised. He’d never heard of this before, a safeword of sorts, nonetheless that his Lord was giving him permission to call him by name. It was as if a bridge had been crossed between them, and the light that shone from Thorongil’s eyes in that moment was not that of a servant for his Lord, but of a man for his trusted lover.

“I understand.” Thorongil smiled slightly, hoping he looked reassured. He felt reassured.

“You may move your hands again, then, servant,” Théoden’s voice had taken the commanding edge again, and Thorongil knew the king’s son was ready to resume the game again, “but only grip the sheets at your side. Do not touch yourself.”

“Yes, my Lord, thank you.” Thorongil replied, making his voice meek again, announcing his own readiness to continue.

“Spread your legs for me a little, yes, that’s good,” Théoden crooned as Thorongil parted his thighs a bit, pushing his firm buttocks up.

Thorongil licked his lower lip nervously, his heart beating twice as fast as he heard the tell-tale swish of the crop swinging through the air as Théoden allowed himself a few practice swings.

Thorongil tensed, waiting for the first stinging blow to fall. The anticipation was killing him, and his stomach tightened into a knot as a cold sweat beaded up across his brow.

“Let’s see,” Théoden said, almost conversationally, “ where to start?”

Thorongil felt Théoden’s hand rove over the skin of his ass, gently kneading the firm tissue as if it were fresh dough, and the touch sent shivers through him. He clutched the sheets at his sides as he gave a little grunt of pleasure, feeling Théoden’s fingers dance upon the meaty swell that defined the cleft.

“I think this is a good place to start, don’t you?” Théoden said softly, as his hand cupped a particularly fleshy area near the bottom of the curve. “Are you ready?”

“Yes, my Lord.” Thorongil hoped his voice didn’t sound as strained as he thought it did, his throat tightening in anxiety.

The crop sang through the air, and Thorongil tensed himself, ready for the pain.

A soft pat landed on his skin, so gently he barely felt it. Thorongil let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, and turned his head to look at Théoden in puzzlement.

“Don’t forget to breathe,” Théoden reminded him lightly, a sly smile painting his young features.

Thorongil blushed a bit as he nodded, then lowered his head again.

“Trust me,” Théoden said softly, before bringing the crop up into the air again.

Thorongil indeed felt the next strike, but to his surprise, it was no more than a light slap against his thick flesh. The following blow was not much different, nor was the next, nor the next. Théoden was varying the location of each strike, letting the leather pad of the crop land on an untried spot upon Thorongil’s ass each time. The result was a marvelous tingling sensation for Thorongil, as his nerves came to life slowly under the steady licks.

He could not see, with his face pressed against the pillow, but Théoden’s face was a mask of careful concentration, as he gauged the location of his next strike with the eye of a general maneuvering his troops for battle. He already knew the places on a man where he could hit more freely, where he must be cautious, and where to avoid all together. But he did not know the rhythm of Thorongil’s body yet, and so he was testing it slowly, watching when his servant would flinch the hardest, and when he would involuntarily rise to meet the stroke. Through the crop Théoden wordlessly communicated with Thorongil’s body, learning the man’s desires through the subtle movements of his flesh.

Before long, Théoden was confident he could read Thorongil, and he let the crop fall heavier upon his servant’s behind. Thorongil barely noticed, so accustomed was he now to the steady blows. Slowly, slowly, Théoden increased the tempo of the strikes as he did their intensity, carefully watching Thorongil’s reactions all the while.

Thorongil was utterly lost as wave after wave of sensation crashed through him. The crop was only striking the surface of his flesh but, – like a stone cast into water – he could feel the blow to the very core of him, rippling hot and throbbing in time to his rapid heartbeat. Endorphins rushed through him like wildfire, and Thorongil was borne upon a strange euphoria that he had never felt before. The pain was delicious, and he uttered little cries of joy as the leather bit into his reddening flesh again and again.

It was then that Théoden stopped, running his hand over the burning skin soothingly, ignoring Thorongil’s moan of dismay. The servant thrust his ass higher, hoping to show his lord how badly he wanted to be hit again, but Théoden just patted his bottom lightly, chuckling slightly at Thorongil’s display.

“I think it’s time to test your resolve, servant,” Théoden said quietly, “for you have yet to be properly punished for your misstep earlier.”

A thrill of excitement shot through Thorongil, which pleased him greatly. His fear had been swept away by his lord’s skilled hands, and all he knew was that he longed to redeem himself.

“Hmmm,” Théoden mused out loud, tapping the tip of the crop thoughtfully against Thorongil’s expectant cheeks, “I think I counted about a dozen swallows of that marvelous throat of yours before you disobeyed me, so a dozen good, hard strokes is what you’ll get.”

Thorongil swallowed hard, suddenly nervous again. Twelve wouldn’t be so bad, would it?

“I want you to count them for me, and I want you to count them loud.” Théoden instructed, “do not worry, the walls here are thick, and no one will question a few muffled sounds coming from a soldier’s bedchamber on a festive night.” He grinned wickedly again as he positioned himself again to strike.

“If I cannot hear you, then we will start over again, even if we are on the eleventh strike. Do you understand?” Théoden said, barely able to keep the excitement from his voice.

“Yes, my Lord,” Thorongil said surely, making his voice clearly audible.

“Then it begins.”

The crop whistled through the air, and this time it did not slow. The hard leather rod impacted with Thorongil’s buttock with a satisfying slap.

“One!” Thorongil yelped, his back arching.

Another song, another strike.

“Two!”

The third blow landed a bit high, and Thorongil jumped, crying wordlessly.

“My apologies,” Théoden murmured, running a cooling hand over the welt left by the offending blow, “but you still did not count. We start again.”

Thorongil whimpered in dismay, but presented himself again regardless. This was his punishment, and he wanted to show his Lord how well he could take it.

This time, Thorongil made sure he counted loudly, gritting his teeth as each strike landed somewhere new, the pain sharp and fierce now. But it lent a new sort of pleasure, different from the warming glow he’d felt before. Each single blow was like lightning arcing through him, striking true into his soul and tempering him like steel in a forge. Without realizing it, he had begun growling each number, thrusting his hips up after each flinch, as if daring Théoden to hit him harder each time. Thorongil wanted to know how much he could truly take, and Théoden was glad to oblige him.

“Ten!” He snarled as the crop bit deep, throwing his head back like a stallion tossing its mane.

“Eleven!” The word escaped his lips broken, as the crop had struck a tender spot that had flared in its twofold pain. But he had taken it, and he only had one more to go. Let it come.

The crop cut through the air so quickly that Thorongil did not hear it. When it landed, the pain was so great he was sure he could feel it cutting like a dull blade through the tender meat, and a different word escaped his lips than the one he had intended.

“Théoden!” he shrieked, flinching mightily. But barely had his lord’s name escaped his lips before Thorongil remembered himself: “Twelve!”

Thorongil looked behind him, trepidation crossing his sweating face. He hoped the last number had counted, for he did not think he could take another dozen such blows.

To his surprise, Théoden stood quaking, his smooth brow also glistening with sweat as he panted for breath. His eyes met Thorongil’s, and the servant knew without words that he had been redeemed by his Lord.

“You are amazing, Thorongil,” Théoden said with wonder. “You have a pain tolerance the likes of which I’ve never seen. The whip-master you met before must have been a clumsy oaf indeed to hurt you so.”

Thorongil did not reply, but instead glowed with pride. He felt electric, as if all his nerves were singing in unison, thrumming through him to heighten his senses. But underneath it, a new feeling was swelling, a sort of emptiness, that he could not explain. He had felt elated no more than a few moments before. Why was this melancholia spreading through him?

“Are you alright?” Théoden asked, watching Thorongil carefully.

Thorongil nodded, for he suddenly did not trust his voice. Why did he feel on the verge of tears?

Théoden saw the conflicted look upon Thorongil’s face, and with a small, knowing smile, climbed into the cramped bed beside his servant, still fully dressed. Thorongil did not resist as Théoden pulled his limp form into his strong arms, the velvet softness of Théoden’s body warming the chill that was spreading through him.

“It can be difficult after it is finished sometimes,” Théoden murmured, “when the pleasure leaves you so completely. It is a natural part of this. Do not fear it.”

Thorongil was silent for a long moment, simply enjoying the strong warmth besides him, recuperating slowly in his Lord’s embrace.

He looked up after a bit, a question burning in his dark eyes. He knew he had not been given permission to speak, but he parted his lips slightly, hoping Théoden would grant him use of his voice.

“Speak.” Théoden nodded.

“How do you know all this, my Lord?” Thorongil finally asked. “There is much mastery in you, for one so young.”

Théoden laughed lightly, stroking Thorongil’s dark head as if he were a cherished pet. Thorongil delighted at the touch and moved into the caress, like a sleek cat purring under its master’s hand.

“Winters are long in Edoras,” Théoden mused, “and noble boys with nothing better to do will invent games to keep themselves occupied.”

Thorongil was satisfied with the answer, though it brought about more questions he knew were not in his place to ask.

They were quiet for a few minutes, letting their breathing become even again. But the thrumming energy still had not left Thorongil, and though his member had grown soft during his punishment, his body was still filled with a restless need. He was well aware that he still had not been allowed release by his Lord, and part of him was beginning to worry that Théoden was going to follow through on his wicked promises to leave him unsatisfied.

Thorongil shifted a bit against Théoden, and let out a quiet moan as he felt silky velvet against the soft meat of his thighs, brushing lightly against his limp member. Thorongil rocked his hips forward slightly, rubbing himself against the downy fabric on Théoden’s muscled leg again, and was rewarded by a waking throb in his loins. He tried to move subtly, teasingly, knowing he was flitting on the edge of disobedience, but daring to risk his Lord’s displeasure in the hope that he was arousing him as well.

“I see you are ready to resume, then?” Théoden chuckled lightly, drinking in the sensuous movements of Thorongil’s body beside him.

Thorongil looked up hopefully, his pupils so dilated they made his eyes look black.

“You’re quite hungry by now, aren’t you, Eagle Star?” Théoden teased, reaching a hand down to lightly stroke the surface of Thorongil’s chest.

“Yes, my Lord,” Thorongil said hoarsely, and he shuddered in pleasure at Théoden’s gentle touch. His member was rapidly hardening again under his Lord’s words and caresses, and he could not resist rubbing himself against Théoden’s thigh again.

Théoden’s youthful face split into a sly grin again as his hand found Thorongil’s nipple, rolling the little nub in his fingers. Thorongil bucked his hips again in response, his moans becoming more heated as Théoden teased the sensitive skin.

“Lay back on the bed,” Théoden ordered, his own voice becoming strained.

Thorongil complied by rolling onto his back, excitement growing as he watched Théoden stand and unfasten his fine tunic. He had yet to see his Lord’s flesh, and was anxious to feel the young body pressing against his own.

Théoden looked down at Thorongil, whose eyes never left him, and smiled to watch the older man shift expectantly on the bed.

“Touch yourself, servant,” Théoden said, his voice husky. “I want to see how badly you want me.”

Thorongil did not need to be asked twice. Shame long lost, one hand darted between his legs to caress his aching cock, while the other began roaming the surface of his chest. His hips rose off the bed slightly as he stroked himself, his burning shaft sliding through his fingers in time to his quiet moans.

Théoden watched Thorongil with luminous eyes as he slowly undressed himself, removing each fine garment and carefully folding it, exposing himself a little at a time. First the tunic, revealing his finely tanned chest and arms, which seemed to almost glow in the dim light. Next the high leather boots, leaving him free to slip his breeches off his slim hips in one smooth motion. Before long, the Lord was as naked as his servant, though he showed none of the vulnerability that Thorongil had felt when he had stripped. In fact, Théoden stroked himself as he stood watching Thorongil’s increasingly heated performance, his member slowly coming to life again.

He watched for only a moment longer before rejoining Thorongil in the bed, and the servant nearly cried out with joy as his Lord’s warm flesh pressed against his own for the first time. Thorongil shifted to allow Théoden more room, though his hands never ceased exploring himself.

“You must want your Lord badly, indeed, to be touching yourself so shamelessly,” Théoden purred, leaning down to lap at a nipple Thorongil’s fingers had just abandoned. “You give me quite a show.”

Thorongil groaned and touched himself more feverishly, spurred both by Théoden’s words and the feel of his hot lips latching about the sensitive nub. Théoden had pressed himself up against Thorongil’s side, and the older man could feel as his Lord’s cock throbbed to fullness against his hip.

“Tell me how badly you want me,” Théoden whispered, his flushed lips barely brushing Thorongil’s ear.

It took a moment for Thorongil to find his voice.

“So badly, my Lord, I fear I will die if you do not let me have you.” His voice was strained with need.

“Do you want to touch you Lord, servant?”

“Yes, my Lord!” Thorongil could barely restrain himself from pushing himself on top of the youth, he so burned to feel Théoden’s noble flesh flush against his own.

“Do you want to fuck your Lord?” Théoden’s teeth nipped the tip of Thorongil’s ear as he rubbed himself harder against Thorongil’s side.

Thorongil had to bite his tongue sharply to hear Théoden use such erotic crudities, and a fierce jolt of desire threatened to overcome his mental resolve.

“Yes!” Thorongil moaned helplessly.

“I want to hear you say it.”

Thorongil hesitated, despite his mounting need. To hear Théoden say it was one thing, to actually use such coarse language to address his Lord was another.

“Say it, Thorongil, or you will get nothing from me this night.” Théoden bit his ear again, harder this time.

“I, I,” Thorongil blushed fiercely, “I want to fuck you, my Lord.”

“Again.”

“I want to fuck you, my Lord!”

Théoden pulled away suddenly, a cruel smile playing on his lips.

“I know you do,” he sneered, and stood up, walking away from the bed.

Thorongil was ready to howl in frustration. Servitude or no, he was going to go mad if he did not release soon, especially if his Lord expected him to continue stroking himself in such a manner. It simply wasn’t fair!

But then Théoden returned, bearing in his hand a small earthenware jar Thorongil recognized as the store of cured animal fat he used to treat the leather portions of his armor. Théoden obviously had other intentions for the contents, though, for he uncorked the vessel and smeared a little of the thick grease upon his hands.

“You may stop, Thorongil,” Théoden said, nodding at the feverishly stroking hand.

Knowing what was coming, Thorongil obeyed, whimpering a little as he laid his hands to his sides. He could not remember ever being so hard, his entire being centered so on the aching throb thrumming through him. He trembled in anticipation as Théoden’s sure hands spread the lubricant over him, and he clenched the sheets beneath him tightly.

“I like that pose for you,” Théoden said casually as he straddled Thorongil’s hips. His other hand was hidden behind him – obviously using some of the oily substance to prepare himself – as he positioned his servant’s member to best effect an entrance. “I want you to lie there, and do not move. I want to see your hands upon the bed at all times. Do you understand?”

“Yes, my Lord.” Thorongil could barely breathe anymore, for he could feel Théoden’s burning flesh brushing against the tip of his slicked cock. He knew all he need do was nudge, and he could have what he craved with every fiber of his being. But obedience kept him in check, so he laid still, as ordered, and waited for bliss to descend upon him.

He did not have long to wait. Théoden slowly lowered himself onto Thorongil, his tight body opening gradually to engulf the rigid cock in molten flesh. A strangled cry escaped Théoden’s lips as he impaled himself, which mingled with the disbelieving groans that came from the man beneath him. Within moments, Théoden sat fully upon Thorongil’s hips, quaking slightly as he relished the feeling of being filled so completely.

Thorongil was shaking as well, with his effort to keep still. The sleek skin enveloping his member throbbed invitingly, urging him to thrust into the burning channel. But his Lord’s instructions still rang in his mind, and he feared disobeying Théoden again. He prayed silently that his obedience would grant him the release he so craved, and only that thought kept him from bucking his hips when Théoden began to ride him.

And oh, could Théoden ride! He moved with the sensuous force of a man long accustomed to the saddle, and his hips rocked rhythmically over Thorongil’s in achingly languid strokes.

The Lord looked upon his servant with burning eyes, relishing the sight of Thorongil’s struggle to keep himself motionless under the driving pulse of his body. In turn, Thorongil’s gaze was locked elsewhere, his eyes filmed with the desperate need he fought to repress. He feared to look upon his Lord as he danced over him, for Thorongil knew the sight of Théoden’s pleasure, combined with the feel of his pulsing flesh sliding mercilessly over him, would undo him in a matter of seconds.

It seemed to go on forever, as Théoden had already had the sharpness of his desire blunted by his previous spending in Thorongil’s mouth. He knew fully how difficult this task was for his servant, and he delighted in lightly slapping Thorongil’s chest in reminder of his orders whenever he felt the hips beneath him start to rise.

“You want to come, don’t you Eagle Star?” Théoden crooned, rocking a little more quickly.

“Yes, my Lord,” Thorongil’s voice was choked.

“How badly?”

“I would do anything for it, my Lord.” Thorongil was no longer playing. Théoden’s voice was wrapping about his mind as hotly as his flesh did about his cock, and Thorongil could feel his control slipping away from him as Théoden began to move more quickly.

“Truly?” Théoden arched his eyebrow and drove himself down harder, watching gleefully as Thorongil bit back a cry.

“Yes!”

“Would you weep for me?” Théoden asked, his voice suddenly soft and cruel.

Thorongil did not know how to respond. He had never cried during coupling, nonetheless on command. He did not know if was capable of fulfilling such an odd demand.

“Apparently you do not want release that badly,” Théoden said lightly, riding even harder, “if you will not even shed a tear for me.”

“My Lord, please!” Thorongil begged, his voice suddenly high in response to the increased rhythm of Théoden’s movements, “I, I do not know how!”

“Surely you have cried before in your life,” Théoden’s voice was low and mocking. “Just one tear, Thorongil, and you will be given your release.”

Thorongil groaned miserably, thrashing his head side to side as Théoden leaned low over him, hips still pumping, and licked Thorongil’s sweating cheek.

“One little salty drop for your Lord,” Théoden whispered, his hand snaking across Thorongil’s chest to find his nipple again. “Can you not do that for me?”

Thorongil shook his head vigorously to feel Théoden’s fingers. He was already dancing upon the blade of a knife, his lust honed so sharply he was terrified that the added stimulation would push him over the edge. But Théoden just laughed lightly, and impaled himself even harder upon Thorongil’s burning length.

It was too much, too much! The soft muscles milking his cock, the strumming fingers upon his nipple, Théoden’s fierce face so close to his. Thorongil knew he had but seconds to fulfill his Lord’s request before failing him utterly.

A dry sob rattled from his chest. But no tears came.

“My Lord, I can’t!” he cried, his eyes treacherously dry.

“Then you do not get to come,” Théoden said simply, sitting up again, “but you get to watch while I do.”

Oh, it was too unfair! He had done everything else his Lord had asked: he had stripped, he had sucked, he had let himself be beat, teased, taunted, and fucked. He had tried so hard to please his Lord, and in the end, he still had failed him.

Théoden was grinding faster, harder, his hand stroking himself as he watched Thorongil’s misery with a ruthless smile. Thorongil had looked away again, his hands grasping the sheets so tightly his knuckles had turned white, his eyes shut fast in desperation as he kept himself as still as possible.

“Watch me come, servant,” Théoden’s voice was breathless, his hand flying over his rigid cock as he rode Thorongil fiercely. “Watch your Lord take what you cannot have.”

“My Lord, no!” Thorongil begged.

“Watch me!”

Thorongil opened his eyes slowly, his face given the appearance of a man under the greatest torture imaginable.

“My Lord, I can’t, I can’t--”

The sight of his servant’s pleading face was what drove Théoden over the edge. With a roar of triumph he came, moving in violent jerks as his seed spilled over his hand onto Thorongil’s quivering belly.

It was too much for Thorongil.

The feel of Théoden’s muscles pulsing tight around his cock combined with the sensation of the hot jism splashing onto his burning skin nudged him off his knife-blade of control. Thorongil teetered on the brink a moment longer, clawing desperately to hold on.

“Please, my Lord!” his beg came in a wail as his shoulders rose from the bed, his body twitching uncontrollably as it prepared to betray him.

“No,” Théoden said simply, grinding himself down one last time.

With a sob so great he felt his heart was being wrenched from his chest, Thorongil began to come. Vicious tremors shook through him as the first font released into Théoden’s body, and he did not realize that he had ripped the sheets under his hands in his desperation to keep control.

“Let go, Thorongil!” Théoden cried suddenly. “You have my permission! Let yourself go!”

He did not need to be told again. Heedless to anything but the storm raging through him, he grasped Théoden’s hips and thrust himself fiercely into the slick heat with a cry of disbelieving bliss. He released himself completely, snarling and pumping, not caring about anything save the hot, throbbing relief burning through him and into his Lord’s waiting body. His soul felt like it was melting, and Thorongil rode the wave until he could no longer move, every inch of him utterly spent from the force of his release. Never in his life had he come so hard.

And as suddenly as it had begun, it was all over.

“Well done, servant,” Théoden murmured approvingly, lightly stroking Thorongil’s wet cheek.

It was only then that Thorongil noticed his face was slick as he opened his eyes. He had done it. He had wept for his Lord. The trails of his involuntary tears of desperation mingled with the salty trickles of sweat coursing towards his matted hair, and he smiled at Théoden in relief.

They stared at each other for a long moment, still locked together with their mingled fluids cooling on their skin. A thousand thoughts and emotions rolled between their joined gaze as Lord and servant wordlessly thanked each other. Thorongil reached up hesitantly to touch Théoden’s sweating face wonderingly, and when the youth did not stop him, Thorongil knew their game was at an end.

Finally, Théoden dismounted, slapping Thorongil’s ribs lightly as would the flank of a prized mount. Thorongil groaned a little as he felt Théoden’s warmth leave him, and closed his eyes for a moment against the fatigue that threatened to engulf him.

But moment turned into minute, and one minute into several. The day had been long and hard to start, and the ferocity of their coupling had taken the last of his strength out of him. Before he could stop himself, Thorongil found himself slipping into sleep.

“Until we meet again, Eagle Star,” a husky whisper cut through the darkness, warm lips brushing against his ear one last time.

Thorongil felt as if his eyelids were made of lead as he struggled to lift them. By the time he’d opened his eyes enough to see, Théoden was gone, leaving Thorongil naked upon the ripped sheets, his flesh still dappled with his Lord’s cold seed.

‘A noon departure, then,’ was the last conscious thought that crossed Thorongil’s mind. Sleep quickly claimed him for her own, transforming memory into dreams as vibrant as the light burning in his Lord’s eyes.

 ***********

Third Age: 3019

 

_‘Fifty years,’_ Aragorn mused, _‘and Meduseld has not changed a whit.’_

He walked quietly among the feasting Rohirrim, returning smiles when they were given, exchanging conversation with soldiers who approached him with words of praise. Though few faces were familiar, and fewer still remembered his own, Aragorn had a strange sense of homecoming that he had not felt for a long time.

All the folk were in high spirits, though less than half the citizens of Edoras had returned from the siege at Helm’s Deep. The celebration was a much needed respite from their long mourning.

“Let the ale flow in place of tears,” King Théoden had announced at the start of the feast, “let the halls be filled with the cries of laughter rather than despair. For tonight we honor the dead with our joy of life. Do not let their sacrifice be for naught!”

So the Eorlingas drank and feasted, danced and laughed. The remaining members of the broken fellowship moved about freely, easily making conversation with their fellow revelers. Even Gandalf was enjoying himself, eased a bit after his brief discussion with Aragorn, and was engaging Gamling in an animated conversation over a pint of ale.

Only Aragorn seemed restless, not wanting to disturb any of his feasting fellows with his sudden bout of melancholia. He had not had time to indulge such moods when he had first arrived in Edoras, for there had been danger afoot and deeds to be done. But now, in the eye of the storm, he was forced to listen to the murmuring of his thoughts, to fully feel the ache in his chest as the impact of time began to sink upon him.

He felt. . .old.

“Are you not feeling festive tonight, Lord Aragorn?” A rich voice said softly from behind the ranger.

Aragorn did not have to look to know the bearer of the voice, but he turned anyway, bowing his head slightly out of habit.

Théoden returned the nod in kind, a crooked smile crossing his noble face as he met Aragorn’s eye briefly.

“Nights such as these,” Théoden continued, taking Aragorn’s silence as reply, “when all of Edoras is alive with light and hope, are the times in which I feel the oldest.”

Aragorn looked at Théoden in surprise, partially relived that someone else shared his mood. He studied the King, taking in how time had indeed etched herself into the creases on Théoden’s face and frosted his golden hair with hints of silver. But he was still fair and hale.

“You are young yet, Théoden King,” Aragorn said reassuringly.

Théoden looked at Aragorn sharply, his keen eyes searching the ranger’s face for hidden meaning.

It was there in the blue depths that Aragorn saw that time had cut Théoden the deepest, and what had once been brilliant pools were now dimmed and iced.

“I have been an old man longer than you realize, Thorongil,” Théoden said strangely, “though you were not here to see it.”

Aragorn’s heart clenched in his chest, his breath coming quick and short. Did Théoden remember?

“Come. All this youthful merry-making is making my head hurt,” Théoden said, half in jest, and motioned his head towards the darkened hall leading away from the feast.

Curiosity piqued, Aragorn followed, leaving his half-empty tankard of ale on the edge of a long table as he let Théoden lead him away from the party.

Presently, they found themselves in the King’s chamber, the heavy door closed against the noise of the feast, and Théoden waved Aragorn to the two chairs before the lit hearth as he poured them both goblets of wine from a gold decanter.

“I’ll be honest, Aragorn,” Théoden said as he settled himself with a groan into the chair opposite the ranger, “I never expected to see you again after you left the first time.”

“I’m glad I proved you wrong, my Lord,” Aragorn smiled lightly as he took the goblet offered him.

“I’m not.” Théoden said, his eyes locked firmly upon the fire.

“Beg pardon, my Lord,” Aragorn said softy, his stomach clenching. This was an unexpected turn indeed. “I did not mean for my return to cause you grief.”

Théoden chuckled, though the sound was hollow to Aragorn’s ears.

“Grief? Quite the contrary, Lord Aragorn. Without your arrival, I would still be a prisoner to Saruman’s will. Without your blade, Rohan would have fallen. Without your guidance, I would have lost myself to despair.” Théoden looked up to Aragorn finally, his eyes dull and haunted. “I owe everything to you.”

Aragorn was speechless for a moment.

“My Lord, you owe me nothing,” Aragorn finally said carefully. “It was your name the people cried when victory was ours. You are their king. Not I.”

“But you will be King,” Théoden said softly.

Aragorn shook his head as he opened his mouth to protest, but Théoden raised his hand to silence him.

“Hide it though you may, Aragorn, your destiny leads you to the throne. It always has, though some of us were too foolish to see it,” Théoden growled, taking a deep drink from his goblet.

The ranger could tell there was something boiling just under the surface of Théoden’s dark mood, a deeper thought troubling him that he dared not speak.

Théoden was quiet for a long minute, his strong jaw locked in contemplation as his creased brow furrowed to match, drawing the shadows even more tightly about his features. Then he nodded, as if coming to a decision, and took a deep breath before turning to Aragorn again.

“When you first arrived at Edoras, I did not know who you were. You hid your lineage as carefully as you did your true name, and though you became one of Rohan’s finest, you were still no more than another servant of the crown.”

Aragorn watched Théoden intently, his breathing shallow again. Théoden did remember. . .

“In my youthful ignorance, I took advantage of my position over you,” Théoden continued, his voice guarded, “and I forced you to act in ways unbefitting a man of your stature.”

Aragorn could not believe what he was hearing. Was Théoden actually _ashamed_ of what he had happened between them?

“I am in your debt, Aragorn son of Arathorn, for I have wronged you,” Théoden said slowly, “and I would have you take your retribution in whatever manner you see fit.”

Retribution? Debt? Did Théoden not know what that night had meant to Aragorn? For fifty years Aragorn had warmed himself on many cold nights by whispering for his Lord’s mercy into the bitter, lonely darkness, dreaming of blazing eyes and ruthless smiles. He had often thought of Théoden growing to manhood, to kinghood, and a shiver would course through him each time he entertained the notion of returning to Rohan.

Aragorn stood suddenly, restlessness driving him into a pace. He avoided Théoden’s eyes, which watched him anxiously, and the baffled man rolled the King’s offer over in his mind again and again.

“Any way I see fit?” Aragorn asked, stopping before Théoden.

“Yes.”

“Any at all?”

“Yes!” Théoden was growing impatient.

Aragorn smiled broadly, which sent a puzzled look across the king’s face.

“Then I ask to serve the crown again, my Lord.”

“What?”

“I ask to serve the crown again.” Aragorn’s eyes smoldered darkly, and he had to fight a laugh at Théoden’s utter bewilderment.

“You cannot be serious!” Théoden’s voice was low and disbelieving.

“Oh, but I am my Lord.” Aragorn dropped his voice huskily, bowing his head again.

“I am an old man, Aragorn.” Théoden waved his hand dismissively, though Aragorn did not miss the slight tremble of desire that went through his fingers.

“So am I,” Aragorn replied smoothly, “even older than you, King-Son.”

Théoden shivered slightly to hear himself called so, and he met Aragorn’s eyes again with a look of barely checked doubt.

“Fifty winters have passed in Edoras since last we met,” Aragorn whispered, “and I would have you show me what time had taught you in the idle games of noble men.”

Théoden’s face slowly brightened as the full realization of Aragorn’s words struck him. The old, sly smile played on his lips, smoothing years from his face and banishing the shadows. The king straightened in his chair, throwing his shoulders back as proudly as if he sat upon his golden throne in the great hall.

This was the Théoden that Aragorn remembered and hungered for, as he watched with mounting excitement as the youthful brilliance returned to Théoden’s eyes, framed by a noble face carved – but not broken – by the experiences of time. It was such an intoxicating combination.

The King opened his mouth, and with an arch of his fair eyebrows, said the words Aragorn had waited over half his life to hear again:

“Strip for me, Eagle Star.”


End file.
